


all that is not love

by owltrocious



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Coping Mechanisms, Kink, M/M, Rough Sex, implied ot5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 18:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8588719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owltrocious/pseuds/owltrocious
Summary: You're lying facedown in a dorm bed that isn't yours, doesn't properly belong to a soul though the roster has Prokopenko's name on it. The other bed is Kavinsky's. He sleeps in it, sometimes. So has each and every one of you—more than slept, less than dreamt.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Or: an interlude, wherein Jiang needs attention.

     
You're lying facedown in a dorm bed that isn't yours, doesn't properly belong to a soul though the roster has Prokopenko's name on it. The other bed is Kavinsky's. He sleeps in it, sometimes. So has each and every one of you—more than slept, less than dreamt. The sheets smell like the thought of murder. Proko's bed is softer. There's no asking; there's just this, pants off and waiting with hands tucked up under the pillow to keep them from trembling. Your legs are cold and you feel more naked in boxers than nude. Coin-flip. Proko will soothe you; Kavinsky will ruin you.  
  
The door opens, footsteps approach. The light creak of the floorboards tells you: K, it's K, it's—  
  
His hand twists in your shirt, pulling a cutting line of fabric across your throat like a collar, and he climbs onto the bed. His mouth finds the delicate shell of your ear. He hums a soft threatening word that might be _yeah_ and his knees bracket your legs. He grinds against your ass, jerking on the shirt so hard you gag and stitches pop in protest. There's no fight in your blood, this is going to happen.  
  
He knows. He is perfunctory and quick: underwear down to your knees, binding your legs close, and a brief pause then slick-wet fingers shoving into you. The first two take the breath from your lungs. It is abrupt and it burns, moreso when he works a third in without waiting. Kavinsky coasts the knife's-edge of too much too hard without quite tipping over. The whole world narrows down to his knuckles stretching you open. The rest of your body is still, quiet, soft exhalations and tingling nerves.  
  
"Just a hole for me to fuck tonight, aren't you," Kavinsky says like he can hear you thinking. "Good. Don't talk, don't move."  
  
As if you could. He slips his fingers free and grabs both of your asscheeks in his hands to spread them, because the fabric around your knees keeps you from opening your legs any further. He fits the head of his dick against you and pushes, driving a long hiss from your throat as he sinks down and in and deep. It aches; it's good. It's good to be still and full to bursting with him. His teeth are a blunt scrape across the back of your neck, seeking purchase.  
  
He uses his leverage and a hand planted next to the side of your face to fuck into you fast and sloppy, all for himself. The heat scraping in your guts and under your tongue and behind your eyes like an asphalt-burn is secondary. He grunts and stills, but he isn't coming. Instead, he pulls out and spreads you again with his thumbs. The emptiness and the cold that seep in without him blanketing you are agonizing. You gnaw the inside of your cheek and wait, wait, because he wants a hole to use and you want to _feel something_.  
  
After long terrible moments, he laughs under his breath and there he is again splitting you open. You've closed some with your tension and his absence. Breath sobs in and out shallow, forced from you while he angles his hips up and fucks you so it stretches, so it aches, so he isn't driving into anything that would make you come.  
  
"This hurting you, sweetheart," he snarls.  
  
"Fuck, _fuck_ ," you manage and it isn't an answer but it is.  
  
His forearm tucks around your neck and jams there, tight, your throat in the crook of his elbow and lean muscle choking you silent. He murmurs filth, promises and threats, in your ear while he wrecks you, calls you _bitch_ and _fuckhole_ and _baby_ interchangeably. The words are like glass under your skin. He's never going to just fucking finish, you think, delirious. Then he does, suddenly, with a soft little groan of selfish delight. A pulse runs from your sore neck down through your guts to your dick, one hard flash of real arousal, there and gone.  
  
He rolls off of you and grabs the collar of your shirt again, using it to pull you into the curve of his body. Your spine presses down the line of his ribs, hip. His arm curves around your chest. He doesn't coddle, but he'll keep you there til you stop shaking. His mouth brushes the top of your head. The ache behind your eyes dissolves into the soft sweet hurt between your legs. You breathe in, breathe out, let the tension go.  
  
      
    


End file.
